Brothers
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: Doctor Whiteface contemplates the past. Even the stoniest Fool has a heart.


Family's always difficult, isn't it? - a spin-off from "Clowning is a serious business". Thanks to I-am-the-stig, as the idea leapt at me while replying to a review and discussing exactly how functional Doctor Whiteface would be and what skeletons he might have in his closet.

* * *

Captain Billy "Clapstick Jack" Nodger leant over the desk. The ruffed collar, motley and big clumsy buttons looked incongruous on such a thickset, burly and thuggish man, his broken nose and cauliflower ears apparent even underneath the thick layer of clowns' make-up.

Doctor Whiteface, thin and ascetic, looked up from the desk and frowned. His trusted Guild enforcer prompted him.

"The Colostomo case, sir. Accused of bringing the Guild into disrepute by using unapproved routines and ad-libbed jokes in a place of public entertainment."

Whiteface nodded.

"I really see no alternative, then. Where is the errant clown?"

"Currently safely lodged in the Chamber of Spikes, sir."

Whiteface nodded again. The Chamber of Spikes was a last resort holding cell for a repeat offender. It was something the Guild had inherited from the… previous management…of the site.

"I will authorise the Cement Down The Trousers jape, Captain."

"Clapstick" Nodger looked disappointed.

"And not the See-Saw of Jolly Japes, sir?"

"_**Not**_ the See-Saw of Jolly Japes, Captain. There is still room for leniency. I will, however, sanction the use of quick-setting cement."

"Thank you, sir!" Nodger sprang to attention and saluted.

"In front of all the Guild tomorrow morning at ten." Whiteface requested. Examples of this nature must be public. Anything else, Captain?"

"No, sir."

"Dismissed, then!"

As the door shut behind the enforcer, Doctor Whiteface sat in the silence of the Office of Fun, brooding, with his chin in his hand, regardless of the damage done to his panstick makeup. _You've come a long way, Jeremiah, _he told himself.

The head of the Guild of Fools, Joculators, Minstrels, Buffoons, and Mime Artists found himself looking back over fifty years to the day when….

The two brothers, seven year old twins, had arrived together at the Fools' Guild School to begin their education. Their father, the official Jester to the Patrician, Lord Winder, had flatly, adamantly, insisted his two sons have the benefits of a Guild education. He could conceive of nothing else. Their mother had cried and wept, but not for long. She'd been married to Zachariah for too long.

Josiah and Jeremiah had been too young to truly understand the implications of what their education would mean, and had left home with a vague child-like optimism that it would all work out. This had been shattered when the scary clown with the scowl under his painted-on face had rounded them up in the street outside the Guild where they had been waiting for admission, and shouted and yelled at them to get a move on, chasing them through the bewildering maze of corridors and dark ill-lit passages, waving a short whip threateningly but not yet using it. . Their street clothes and most of their possessions had then been confiscated with the explanation _you won't need these any more_, and they had both been given ill-fitting clowns' motley to wear. Their beds would now be thin mattresses in a long dark partially underground corridor, paved with chilly cold flagstones, shared with the twenty-eight other Prep School candidates.

Josiah's slightly lopsided face with the strange eyes focused on his brother in the gloom.

"So. We're here." he said, in that peculiarly stressed voice that had led their father to publicly wonder if he'd fathered a retard. Other student clowns would make fun of Josiah's oddities. Jeremiah would learn to fight, in defending his brother. But looking at Josiah, Jeremiah recognised a lot of the same oddness in himself, a feeling of alienation, strangeness, of having been chosen to be set aside from other boys.

He would feel this even after his brother's violent death, some years in the future.

Learning to fight, becoming not the largest and most brutal boy in the year, but one who used his head in a fight and followed through ruthlessly, until the other boys would back away rather than risk a confrontation, served Jeremiah in good stead. He soon got a reputation for ferocious viciousness that went before him, even with older boys. But he could despair of Josiah, who would passively shrug off prods, kicks, trips and pinches without retaliation.

And then, just as Jeremiah was about to say _You must learn to fight back_! for the twentieth time, he witnessed Josiah , having just been tripped by an older boy who turned and sniggered to his friends, stand up. And look as if he was about to walk away. And then… his brother screamed in rage and exploded. By the time it was all over, three of his assailants had been taken to the infirmary. It had taken two adult Clowns to prise Josiah's fingers from the throat of a fourth.

Josiah had learnt one of the necessary survival skills for an odd boy who stood out, in a boys' school. Being unpredictable, randomly exploding and causing more damage to the opponent than normally happens in a fight between boys, of leaving the bullies unsure as to whether he will meekly take it, or go off like a bomb. Sometimes it's just not worth a bully's while.

"I told them. To leave me alone. But. They wouldn't. " Josiah told his brother.

"You did the right thing" Jeremiah consoled him, feeling inwardly relieved.

And the unrelenting lessons and rote-learning began again.

* * *

"Fools. Jesters. Minstrels." The gaze of Doctor Whiteface passed over each occupational block, easily distinguishable by its professional clothing. Clowns in their motley and painted faces, Jesters in belled coxcomb hats and particolour, Minstrels and Troubadors in harlequinade, and holding their instruments like soldiers hold weapons. And…

Whiteface's eyes swept over the fourth professional group, the one nobody liked to talk about very much, in their black full-body leotards and black roll-neck tops, long thin rather emaciated people with exaggerated facial makeup.

"And mime artists." Whiteface concluded **(1)**.

The graduates and students had been formed up by group in a loose semi-circle inside the Performance Marquee, the better as to witness the punishment the Jolly Good Pals were about to mete out to one who had broken the rules.

The transgressor, a clown called Enrico Colostomo, stood trembling in his comedy over-large trousers, in between two of the largest and most blue-chinned and broken-nosed members of the Pals, an organisation that was to the Fools' Guild what the Agony Aunts were to the Seamstresses. They were its police force, its enforcers, its licenced hard men. Behind them on the sand sat quite a lot of gently steaming buckets.

"Enrico Colostomo, the business of humour is a serious one." Whiteface intoned. "We cannot have clowns going around _ad-libbing_ and _making up new jokes on the spot_, or where would we be? You know full well the process for registering and gaining approval for a new joke. You know it can pass all the committee stages in a minimum of twenty years and that the Council of Mirth has in fact relaxed its previously rigorous standards to the point where it approves of as many as three new jokes per year. You chose to bypass precedent and tradition and I have no choice other than to invoke punishment."

He paused, and scanned the Guild members with his eyes.

"I decree that ye shall wear the Cement Trousers of Repentance."

There was a collective shocked gasp. Whiteface nodded at the Pals.

"In your own time, gentlemen."

Whiteface strode away as the Fools' Orchestra kettle-drummer began a long, slow, drum-roll, the first few buckets were poured down the overlarge trousers, and Colostomo screamed for mercy.

At the end of the entrance tunnel to the ring, Whiteface nodded at the two masons, hired for the occasion, who stood there pale and grey-faced, out of sight of the Guild members.

"Give him an hour, gentlemen, then chip him out. Thank you."**(2)**

* * *

The brothers grew and diligently learnt how to be clowns. Both passed out fairly close to the top of the year in their prep years and passed to senior schools. On escorted trips to the City, they met and even got to interact with pupils at other schools. Jeremiah could see his brother grow serious and discontented, especially after making friends with pupils at the Assassins' Guild School next door. He sensed there could be problems here, but Josiah refused to open up. Sighing, Jeremiah got back to memorising Monsieur Pune's _**Essay On A Form of Wit**_, the set text on humour and the joke. **(3)**

* * *

Whiteface returned to the Office of Fun and unlocked a desk drawer. Normally a man not given to introspection or nostalgia, he had been born as one of twins. His brother, who had endured training with him at the Fools' Guild, was now over thirty years dead at the hands of that damn Watchman. Even though he acknowledged that the frail and unworldly Josiah, the target of bullies and malicious jokes at school, had grown up into a monster, he still missed him.

Josiah was also his secret, his weak place. The watchman Keel was now dead – he had outlived Josiah by only a couple of days. The new patrician Lord Snapcase had sent out men to find and kill him, and there had been a final confused skirmish in the street, under the flowering lilac. But the other Watchman, the one who had accompanied Keel into the bowels of Hell where his beloved but warped brother had worked, still lived. Whiteface saw him nearly every day, at Palace meetings called by Vetinari.

_How much did Vimes know? How much had he worked out? _

Whiteface looked down at the iconograph of his brother, with no makeup, in his Watch uniform. He read the name at the bottom. He wished a tear would form, or something. But he felt the loss, even if he couldn't express it. He read the name again.

* * *

"_Josiah Findthee Swing! Jeremiah Seethee Swing!"_

The brothers went up together to be told their Guild names. This was the last time their given names would be used. They would become their Guild identities, just as surely as the immaculately presented paint on their faces blotted out their old faces.

Josiah had grown and matured as well as he could under the Guild's stony parentage. There had, against all probability, actually been good teachers who cared passionately for the welfare of their charges: the brothers owed a debt to Brother Melchizedek, who had taught them with care and respect, who had never raised a hand, still less a stick, to any of his pupils, and who had shown them that there were aspects of clowncraft it was possible to take pride in, such as the precision necessary to carry out a memorable piece of business, the gymnastic moves, the perfect timing of a good physical joke. Melchizedek had been a sort of surrogate father to his boys, and was loved by all.

There had been two things Josiah had excelled in. The Fools' Guild only taught a limited amount of swordcraft, and that only to exploit the comedic potential of collapsing or wilting dummy blades. Josiah proved un-nervingly good at it. (but remained too un-cordinated to be a good knife thrower or juggler). Sensing brilliance in one other specialised area, Melchizedek had taken him to the Hall of Faces and introduced the boy to Brother Isaiah, the Master of Faces.

Given a Face to copy onto a blank eggshell, Josiah had copied the intricate design perfectly and completely, in perfect proportion, right down to the tiniest detail.

"It looks as if you have an apprentice, Isaiah." Melchizedek had said.

The older Fool had nodded, impressed.

"How did you do that, boy?"

"Please, sir. I find faces interesting. I like looking at them. I wonder if there is a relationship between coarseness of feature and coarseness of character. Like…." and he named several notorious School bullies. Both teachers laughed.

"You may be right, lad." Isaiah said. "You may be right. The phrenologists say there's a correspondence between bumps on the skull and traits of character. Working in here as I do, you start to speculate about heads and faces and why we all have the same Gods-given features, but still contrive to look so different. I have some interesting books you may like to read."

* * *

And so Findthee Swing's obsession was born, in the Hall of Faces at the Fools' Guild. It was consolation to him, as Whiteface reflected, as he was never properly cut out to practice as a Clown. He remembered the awful scene at home, where the reason for his brother's growing discontent had become appallingly clear.

Josiah had made friends among student Assassins, a group who every young Fool came to envy because of the style, the grace, the unshakeable confidence, with which they lived their lives.

_It's just bad luck they are right next door to us, _Whiteface thought._ Fine people when you get to know them, but a continual source of dissatisfaction, envy and discontentment to our students. _

Jeremiah remembered the awful day one Hogswatch when his brother had begged, had pleaded, had wept, to their father, asking to be taken out of the Fools' School and transferred to the Assassins, where he just knew he'd be much happier. Their father, never an easy man to live with, had exploded with rage and taken his belt to both boys, to Josiah for being so bloody ungrateful, and to Jeremiah for mot having talked him out of the damnfool notion.

"_Happiness_? Where did _happiness_ come into it? You're _clowns_! You are a clown, boy! This is your family Guild and you will be brought up into it! That's all there is to it!"

Their mother had died not long afterwards. Josiah had closed in even more, becoming more introspective and inward-looking, and those bloody strange books on phrenology and physiognomy lent to him by Brother Isaiah were just the scab over some sort of festering pustule.

But at least he'd found his niche, often excused lessons to work with the kindly Isaiah and learn the trade of the Face Registry.

Jeremiah laboured on, striving for excellence in his clowning, shrugging off slaps, punches and lashings, hungry for the occasional word of praise from his tutors, finally graduating near the top of his year.

They endured the ceremonial pouring-of-custard-down-the-trousers together, accepted the joke handshake of the then Doctor Whiteface, and stood together as fully fledged Clowns.

Then Josiah dropped his bombshell.

"It's been nine years, Jerry" he said. "And I thank you for looking after me. But I'm leaving."

Jeremiah had long since given up hope of their performing together as the Swing Twins. It would have been nice, though.

"Where will you go?"

Josiah shrugged.

"I've already spoken to the Palace. Lord Winder's looking for Watchmen. _Special_ watchmen. Do you remember Dad introduced us both to the Patrician? And I talked about Brother Isaiah's theory that a person's character is written on their face?"

"Yes. Dad's face went black and he told you to shut up. But the Patrician said no, no, keep talking. This is interesting."

Josiah nodded.

"The Patrician wants to give me a chance to write the thesis that proves a criminal can be identified by the dimensions of his face. I got the clue years ago from all those eggshells in the Hall of Faces. Funny how things work out, isn't it? So I sign on as a research constable in the Cable Street Particulars. Lord Winder assures me promotion comes quickly to the right people!"

"Be very careful. I've heard bad things about those people."

"I will. Thank you, Jerry!"

And later on , the brothers made their final parting and went their separate ways. Jeremiah Seethee Swing went on the road with various travelling companies. While travelling, he heard his father had died of rage and apoplexy at his son giving up clowning. He grieved, briefly, then went about his trade. A year or two later, he heard his brother had been promoted Sergeant. A couple of years after that, he was informed his brother was now a Captain and had dropped the "Josiah" from his name.

One day, the company returned briefly to Ankh-Morpork to find the chaotic aftermath of the Glorious Revolution. They rode through the rubbish and the shattered barricades back to God Street.

Doctor Whiteface, the head of the Guild, was there to meet them.

"Alberto Ridiculoso, formerly Jeremiah Seethee Swing?"

"How may I assist, sir?"

Doctor Whiteface looked grave, and led him aside.

"I'm afraid I have bad news. During the recent insurrection, your brother, known to the Guild as Mario Ridiculoso but to the world as Captain Josiah Findthee Swing… I'm afraid he was killed in the fighting. I'm truly sorry. He had a talent"

* * *

Jeremiah had spent the next twenty-five years striving for higher and higher position in the Guild. Then he achieved it as the office of Doctor Whiteface claimed him to be the new body to its Face.

He had also learnt a lot about what his brother had become, with no checks or balances on his warped psyche, without a brother or father or the Guild to keep him in check. He honestly couldn't blame Keel or Vimes. That sort of monster had to be taken out of the world. But the monster had also been his brother, and a part of him ached at the memory of the boy he had been.

Doctor Whiteface was frightened only of two things. Vimes discovering he was a living Swing – well, he'd deal with that if the time came.

But now he was Guild Master and the fates and lives of thousands depended, at least in part, on him. There was nobody to keep him in check or restrain any excess he might manifest.

What would happen, would he even recognise it, if the same madness that had entered his brother descended upon him?

Doctor Whiteface breathed hard.

He could always do the hitherto unthinkable. Confess it to Vimes. And ask the dratted man, who was at least incorruptible,

"Sir Samuel, if you ever see my brother's eyes staring at you out of my face, then please kill me. I am grooming several potential successors so that there wil be a smooth succession. Thank you."

That option was always there. Vimes had already killed an Assassins' Guild Master who had gone to the bad, after all. It would nothing new to him. But perhaps tomorrow...

He put the iconograph away. Nearly time for a Council meeting…

* * *

**(1) **It was perfectly legal for the Guild to _teach_ mime artistry behind strictly closed doors. Not even Vetinari had a problem with that. But the Guild's graduates in this discipline were strictly warned to wear plain clothes when allowed out into the City, and on no account to practice their skills anywhere Lord Vetinari's writ ran. Another reason why the Guild had asked zoologist and animal specialist Johanna Smith –Rhodes to be a visiting lecturer was for her to deliver a short lesson to the mime artists on scorpions, their natural habitat (ie, in deep pits under the Patrician's Palace), what their poison could do to the unprotected human body, and how to avoid learning all these things at first hand. (See my stories _**Nature Studies**_ and _**Clowning is a Serious Business**_).

**(2) **I _know_ it doesn't work this way. When the Roundworld Mafia encased somebody's feet in cement or concrete, it wasn't so they could ponder how long they could hold their breath if they took a really good lungful before immersion. Oh no. The effect of encasing somebody in concrete or cement is a torture in itself, which has the bonus of weighting down the corpse for convenient underwater disposal later. As the stuff sets, two painful thing happen. Concrete _expands_, with the effect of crushing any bodily parts stuck in it. This is exquisitely painful in itself and an inducement to wipe out the disrespect you have shown to the Godfather by telling him where the gold/drugs/cash are which are rightfully his. Cement also heats up as it sets, which gently cooks the skin and soft tissues underneath. Also agony. But for Discworld purposes I'm sticking with the idea Colostomo may be chipped out later with no physical ill-effects. Maybe they have different cement.

**(3) **M. Pune, the Guild founder, devoted his life to analysing humour. His seminal work, almost a holy text to the Guild, runs into 160,000 words and dissects the seven Great Classes and seventy-three Subordinate Classes of joke. Clowns and jesters are expected to learn great chunks of Pune by rote.


End file.
